


The Pin and the Butterfly

by Lilander



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Butt Plugs, Dark Rey (Star Wars), Dubcon to Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Femdom, HEA, Hair Kink, Humiliation, Interrogation, Knifeplay, Levitation, Long Hair, Needles, No Blood, Nonconsensual drug use but everyone's OK with it, OOC but Han raised Ben and Sheev got to Rey so I'm doing my best here, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Rey could kill him at any time but he gets off on the thrill, Rey is a Palpatine (Star Wars), Rey mass-murders the Bad Guys and Ben is into it, The empire never fell, Threats of piercing, dubcon, mentions of somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilander/pseuds/Lilander
Summary: “On Alderaan, taking out a woman's braids is an intimate act.”“And on Naboo, assisting the Queen is an honor no other Queen would give to the bastard son of a rebel house.” She guides the tip of a hairpin to his bare throat. “Do you want to serve the Empire, Lord Solo?”“Always, your majesty.”“Then get on your knees, bastard, and serve.”~Or, Ben Solo has a hair kink and the Sith Queen of Naboo has a lot of hair.~
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 26
Kudos: 87
Collections: Ijustfellintothissendhelp, Kinkuary Prompt Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: "Take a kink you think of as mild and make it as intense as you can" + "Reverse the power dynamic you would usually write" = voila, femdom interrogation hair kink.

“I told you to kneel, Lord Solo. I won’t tell you again.”

It would be easy enough to put one of her hairpins through Lady Palpatine’s heart. To be a hero.

She knows he’s thinking it, knows he’s straining to hide his erection from the humorless scrutiny of her Handmaidens at the mere thought of touching all that Naboo hair while they think about killing each other. The fact that she knows he’s thinking it makes him even harder, since he remains, as ever, an unredeemable mess of a human being.

“On Alderaan taking out a woman's braids is…it’s an intimate act.”

The most intimate act. The one he’s been jerking off to forever, the one he’s obsessed with.

“Is that so?” she asks in a voice that says she knows damn well it’s so. “Well. On Naboo, assisting the Queen is the highest honor, an honor no other Queen would give to the bastard son of a rebel house.” She guides the tip of a hairpin to his bare throat. “Do you want to serve the Empire, Lord Solo?”

He swallows, almost pricking his jugular, and the knife weighs heavy in his pocket. She knows.

“Always, your majesty.”

“Then get on your knees, bastard, and serve.”

Fuck.

The pin disappears from his throat and reappears in his hand, accompanied by the hot press of her glove. An invisible force pushes his shoulders and he shudders as he follows it down, sliding down her body to his knees, leaving him half-hard in front of all her guards and staring into her empty black eyes.

His breath shakes as he touches the spindles of hair that wind around her body like a cage. As the first pin slides free, the cage unweaves itself, baring her modest black gown to the shin.

Fuck, there are so many pins. There’s so much hair. It has to be extensions—nobody could walk with all this—but it’s black and soft and he can just see the spike of a fighting-boot under the hem of her gown. He adjusts his thighs around his cock.

“Something wrong, Lord Solo?”

She pronounces the title with a refreshing lack of mockery.

“Nothing, your majesty.”

“You seem tense.”

They say the Emperor’s granddaughter likes to play with her victims. Ben believes it. They say she can read minds, too, but if that were true his skull would already be on a spike on Rebels’ Row.

Ben drops the hairpin with a piercing _tink_ into a ceramic bowl.

“The pins are sharp, your majesty. I wouldn’t want to shed the Emperor’s blood.”

It’s too much, and if he had a lick of common sense he wouldn’t have dared say it, but neither of his parents had much common sense to pass on.

Her eyes seem to crinkle in a smile, and she gestures for the Maidens to stick to their place in the shadows. Her eyes are nothing but blackness; her mouth is obscured behind the mask of braids that consumes her face.

“From what I hear,” she says, “you’re not usually so careful.”

He allows his fingers to rest against her hair for a few milliseconds. “Yeah?” he asks, not bothering to imitate his mother’s courtly accent. She knows what he is. “I’d like to know what else you hear about me.”

“Speak to the Queen with more respect,” the First of Maidens barks. Her voice is low, and under the white makeup Ben just makes out the shadow of stubble.

“It’s alright, Finn,” the Queen says. “Lord Solo isn’t a politician.”

“He’s not an idiot, either.”

“That remains to be seen. I’ll speak to him alone.”

The First of Maidens frowns, her hand moving to the lightsaber that’s skewered untold hundreds. The Maiden’s disapproving eyes are on his crotch. “My lady—”

“Alone, Finn. Lord Solo will see to my hair like a good servant.” Her glove comes to rest on his head, petting him. “Oh—but I’ll need that knife in your pocket.”

Ben Solo wouldn’t have suspected that his blood could run cold while he’s in the middle of a full-blown hard-on, but his body exceeds his expectations.

He’s got an excuse to go for the knife, and he’s got a pin the length of his hand in his fingers. He could feint the knife and drive that pin into her windpipe, maybe get a proper cut in, enough to have a chance for her to bleed out before they could get the bacta.

He’d be skewered, of course; a dozen Maidens, lightsabers at the ready, would barbeque his internal organs before he could grunt a battle-cry, not that he has one. Maybe he’d get a few seconds to preen like a smug ass, like Dameron, before his brain shut down. If his mother’s stupid rebellion lasts more than a week they might say something nice about him for once.

He reaches into his pocket, withdraws the knife, and places it in her outstretched glove.

Finn shoots her a look somewhere between concerned and long-suffering, but gestures for the Maidens to withdraw. Ben tamps down the urge to beg them not to leave him alone with the Sith Queen and his bulging cock.

“Of course I’m never really alone,” she says as she examines the knife. “Grandfather sees that I’m always protected.”

Does he imagine the petulance there? It’s gone as quick as it comes, but it’s something.

“This isn’t your knife,” she observes, rubbing her glove over the blue inlay in a way that makes his breath catch.

“You caught me,” he replies. She motions for him to keep undoing the net of braids pinned down the length of her body, and after a second of rebellion, he returns to unweaving the braids beside her left knee. “Stole it.”

“From your mother’s apartments.”

The blue Appenza butterflies of Alderaan, the sigil of House Organa, makes any confirmation unnecessary.

“This is an Alderaanian calligraphy knife, isn’t it?” she asks.

“You know a lot about Alderaan.”

“I know a lot about knives.”

Fuck.

“And it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it?” she continues. “Someone like you, holding on to traditions like a real lord?”

He shrugs. Pretending he could ever been more than a bastard is a lot lower on the scale of pathos than, say, kneeling on the floor humping the air because the Empress monster called him _pathetic_. Besides, the truth lost its ability to hurt him a long time ago.

“If you didn’t care about tradition,” he says, pinching her hair, “you wouldn’t walk around in all this getup. I hear you’re not even from Naboo.”

She hesitates a beat too long before answering.

“What else do you hear about me?”

“I asked you first,” he says.

Thoughtful, she slides the blade of the knife across her glove, enough to test, but not to cut.

“I hear that you like to play dangerous games.”

“Funny, your majesty, I hear the same about you.”

“Would you like to play?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She pinches the flat of the blade between her fingers and holds it out to him, hilt first. “You always have a choice.”

He peers up at her over the knife with the gnawing sense that he could walk out of here. Of course if she knows anything, then they know about his mother, and if they know about that he’ll have to get off the planet. But he’d have a chance.

What does she want?

He shrugs and takes the knife. “Let’s play, sweetheart.”

***

“The rules,” she says, chin tilted upward as she stands above him. “I make a guess about you, and you tell me if it’s true or false.”

So it’s an interrogation. Fine; better a monster that wants to fuck him than a Huttese broker with something to prove.

“We take turns,” he says. “You ask me one, then I ask you.”

“You’re very demanding for a bastard.”

“I’m the one on my knees, your highness.” He teases the blade of the delicate calligraphy knife along the net of hair woven over her thighs. “I think you’ll find I’m a very obedient subject.”

She glances down at him, face blank behind her mask of hair. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” she says. “My hair won’t undo itself.”

“Maybe I should just cut the extensions out, unless you want me on my knees all night.”

“And if I do?”

Ben slips the knife between her thigh and the hair, just grazing her femoral artery.

“I might keep you there all night,” she continues, ignoring the threat on her life. “And tomorrow too. I might make you stay there while the Maidens give me a bath. You’d like that, I suppose; kneeling in your own cum for days, out in the open for everyone to see.”

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

“Listen to me, bastard. You call me ‘your majesty.’ And if you come before I give you permission, I’ll show you how I treat rebellious subjects.”

“Yes, fuck, your majesty.”

“Now. For every right guess I make, or every wrong guess you make, I get to choose something for you to take off. Since I’m a generous Queen, you can have the first guess.”

Ben, who’s close to spilling in his pants, nods dumbly and scrambles for something to ask.

“You’re not from Naboo at all,” he says.

“True. Are you going to leave that knife there?”

“Yes. Do I get to choose something for you to take off?”

“You do, bastard.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Your mask.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Why?”

“I want to see your face.”

“What if I’m hideous?”

“You think I mind?”

The hair moves, like she’s biting her lip. It’s a vulnerable gesture for the Emperor’s monster. But she grabs the knife from her thigh and raises it to her cheek. In one fearless movement, she slices through the hair that sweeps forward from behind her head, first on one side, then the other, and the braided mask falls on Ben’s chest, leaving her very human, very pretty, very familiar mouth.

She doesn’t let him ask the thousand questions that tumble through his head. “My turn,” she says. “You hate your mother for bringing you into this world.”

Ben nearly chokes. The mention of his mother puts a damper on his erection, though he can guess well enough why the Queen brought her up.

“Well? True or false?”

“True,” he says. True enough. He loves his mother too, probably, maybe, sometimes. But the hate never leaves. If her doomed love affair with democracy ends up getting him killed, well, he’s always suffered from her doomed love affairs.

“Take off your shirt.”

He grits his teeth and complies, shedding his uncomfortable court robes for free and peeling off his black undertunic.

“You really know how to kill the mood,” he says as he pulls the fabric over his head.

“I told you to serve. I never said it would be fun.”

She’s watching him, and without the hair covering her face, he can read her expression.

“Satisfied, your majesty?”

“Not yet. And it’s your turn.”

Ben returns to his task, plucking out two hairpins as he thinks. He’s heard rumors, of course: Lady Palpatine is part droid; she’s a failed clone; she’s the child of the Emperor’s rebel love-child who spirited her away before her grandfather knew about her.

He’s heard other rumors, too.

“You dress up like a scoundrel and sneak out to cantinas,” he says. “You’ve been watching me down in the lower levels.”

“That’s two guesses.”

“Both true.” He doesn’t waste time asking for confirmation. “Take out your contacts.”

She blinks, like she’s trying to protect them. “How do you know they’re contacts?”

“You’re not part droid. You’re too human.”

The mouth bows in a frown, but she gingerly dabs her eyes, placing two black prosthetics on a crystal side table. She blinks at him, and her eyes are exactly what he remembers through the smoke and the alcohol. Autumn-colored, warm to match her freckled skin. The counterfeit black hair all around her, the weblike headdress—it all looks monstrous around that human face.

She swallows, and the expression is openly nervous. No wonder she hides her eyes.

“My turn,” she says.

“Yours, your majesty.”

He didn’t mean for it to come out that…worshipful. But she seems pleased. He’s run out of hair he can reach without rising, and she hasn’t given him permission to stand up, so he combs his fingers through the floor-length black extensions, luxuriating in their softness. Her real hair is brown.

He’s going to touch it.

“You’re planning a rebellion,” she says.

“False.”

“Take off your pants.”

He hesitates. “You got it wrong.”

“Take off your pants, bastard. Shoes too.”

“Do I have permission to get off my knees?”

“No. I’ll help you.”

She holds up her hand and the knife, lying forgotten on the ground, flies into her hand. She cuts off a length of extension and, before he can react, loops them around his wrists and pulls his arms above his head with preternatural strength.

Something feels—odd.

He’s levitating. She’s bending his back, arching him in midair, spinning him slowly. When he stops moving, his vision is filled with her between his legs, holding the knife over his crotch.

The button on his pants gives way, the threads cut through.

“Fuck you,” he spits.

“Only if you’re good,” she says, and tucks the knife into her belt beside one of her lightsabers. Instead, she lifts a massive hairpin from her headdress and traces the tip along his skin from navel to waistband, tickling the individual hairs as she goes.

And he understands now. “This is still part of the game.”

Lady Palpatine smiles, and carefully unzips his pants, leaving nothing but his thin black underpants between his erection and the world.

“Now,” she says, “the fun begins.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Palpatine has her way with her captive bastard, but as their game unfolds, Lord Solo realizes she's not what she seems to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dubcon continues in this chapter. The whole scenario is dubcon, but if you're worried about the noncon drug use, a very slight needle prick with no blood, or somnophilia, I've provided a spoilery description in the endnotes. Thank you for reading!

“Well?” the Queen asks.

“Well what?”

“Usually at this point they start saying things like ‘just kill me if you’re going to’.”

“So you, uh, do this often?”

He blinks up at the dim lights, resolving a black stone ceiling carved with the Imperial crest. The ceiling moves as she sweeps her hand to guide him to another, larger room, one ringed with statues. The effect, like most of the Emperor’s décor, is a little too deliberately spooky for him to take seriously.

She uses the knife to divest him of the rest of his clothes, and Ben dangles in mid-air, increasingly naked, hard, and free to contemplate his life choices.

What would it be like to fuck her in mid-air? Is that a thing she can do?

Why has she been watching him?

Well, no, that one’s easy enough. He’s close enough to his mother to know if she’s up to something, and he’s the weakest link. Most likely to crack. Who else would the Emperor go after? Mothma? Martyr-happy zealots like Dameron?

He could give his mother up, tell her everything he saw on Hoth. Nip the whole rebellion in the bud. He’d probably save a lot of people from dying as pawns in some idiotic fight between nobles who’re never gonna let anything change.

“Just, out of curiosity,” he says as he slices through his pant leg, “are you planning to kill me?”

“Probably.” Ben’s cock twitches, and the knife skirts a little too close to it. “I suppose you’ll tell me you’ll die before you talk.”

“I’d rather fuck you, but talking’s good too.”

He’s nervous. He’s babbling; bad habit from his father.

She smirks, and the knife’s butterfly inlay glints in the light as she brings it to rest on the cloth of his underwear, careful not to touch his erection. The room smells distractingly of lavender and what must be several gallons of hair product. The knife stays where it is, tucked into his shorts, as out of his reach as if she’d hurled it out the palace window.

“We’ll get to that,” she says. “After our game. Do you remember what I said about not coming without permission?”

Her tone makes him arch his pelvis, grinding on air. “You’re not helping.”

“It’s not my job to help. It’s yours, and you were so busy acting like a wookiees in rut that my hair is only half undone.”

“Have you ever seen a wookiee in rut? It’s bad. You ever heard a Shriiwook love poem? I’ll tell you one—”

“Stop talking.”

He stops talking. Not because she asked nicely, but because she’s shoved a gag in his mouth.

Or--not a gag. Something long, with a dull rounded-off end that shoves aside his uvula and a flared base the size of her fist.

“You know what this is,” she says.

Oh, fuck.

It’s not that he’s never had anything in his ass before. He had a lot of free time in hyperspace. But the sight of the plug, with its lightsaber-like obsidian hilt, nearly makes him come on the spot.

“I like you better quiet,” she says with a smile that might be girlish if she weren’t suspending him in midair and fucking his throat with a butt plug. This, he’s not used to, and he’s briefly afraid she’s going to choke him with it, but she eases up when he gags. The blade of his calligraphy knife scratches his pubic hair inside his underwear, and the hair wrapped around his wrists is starting to dig in.

“I’m going to undo my hair myself,” she says as though nothing is happening. “And you’re going to watch me, and tell me everything you know about seditious activity. While you do, you’re going to get this inside you. All the way.”

He starts to ask how, since his arms are tied, but all he does is drool around the plug still lodged between his teeth. Her glove wipes the drool from his chin, and then her index finger moves upward, slipping between the plug and his tongue. The leather tastes well-used, meaty.

His moan comes out louder than he intended as she yanks the plug from his mouth and tugs the knife out of his underwear, turning away and stepping out of his view. For a crazed moment he assumes she’s made good on her threat, just leaving him suspended without his clothes for Force knows how long, but then the air lets go of him and he crashes to the floor.

“Ow,” he opines.

“Stand up.”

He does, with difficulty since his hands are still bound with a meter’s worth of her chopped-off hair extensions. She examines him as he stands there like an idiot in his underwear.

Her gloves close over his nipples, pinching so hard he gasps.

“I could pierce these,” she muses as she squeezes. “Maybe I will. You’d look good in front of the palace, all strung up with needles right through you.”

He shudders at that. She could do it.

“Or maybe here,” she says, dragging the knife down to his cock. “A pretty little ring, and a chain I could lead you around by. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Kneeling beside me for all your betters to see?”

Fuck, she _has_ been watching him. Or—

“You talked to Phasma,” he grunts, bucking against the knife.

She smirks. “And everyone else you pay by the hour to show you how worthless you are, _Lord_ Solo.”

There’s the familiar mockery, only on her tongue it’s enough to make him choke around a barely-suppressed orgasm.

“But you never let them see you like this,” she continues. “You never let them touch you. I wonder why.”

“We’re still playing, if you want to guess.”

She smiles at that.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that this scoundrel act you put on is all fake. I think, deep down, you’re waiting for true love.”

He tries to smirk, and fails.

“Well? True or false?”

“You got me,” he says, because why the hell not? He left his usual boundaries behind as soon as he decided to answer the Queen’s summons, and if he’s going to die, he might as well get fucked before he does. Besides, he gets the feeling she’d know if he lied to her. “I’m a hopeless romantic. Just looking for someone to make sweet love to me all night long.”

“Good,” she says. “Now bend over.”

He bends, hamstrings straining, like he might bow down to a goddess. Her glove trails over the material of his shorts, but she doesn’t yank them down, or kick him over. Instead, something hard and narrow pricks at the cloth on his ass.

Making sweet, sweet love.

She’s using the knife, his knife, to cut his underwear off. The flat of the blade traces cold over his cheeks, just grazes his scrotum, before she peels the cloth away from his body, leaving him nude with his asshole completely exposed.

The knife is cold as it circles his entrance.

She gestures behind him, where he sees what she’s been up to: the plug’s been fixed into a hole in one of the statues, the silver form of a kneeling, stylized woman.

Oh.

Her eyes, her very human eyes, look up and down his body like she’s searching for a weak point.

She shoves a tube of lubricant into his bound hands and shoves him to the floor like he’s not three times her size. “You know what to do,” she says.

He does. With his bound hands, he maneuvers until he’s able to squeeze some of the cold gel onto the plug, taking some pleasure in watching it drip like honey onto the immaculate Imperial floor as she watches. There’s something strange in her eyes. Almost nervous—but no. What would she have to be nervous about?

An acute awareness of just how pathetic he must look overwhelms him, crawling around on all fours, lube-soaked hair wrapped around his wrists, scraping his knees on the marble as he moves his bare ass into place. With a deep breath, he looks her right in her golden eyes and backs himself onto the huge, tapered plug.

The tip goes in easily enough, cold and slick and deliciously invasive. He rocks slowly, easing himself back.

Hair and silk pools in front of him as she kneels to watch him. She settles the knife at his throat just long enough for him to breathe out _your majesty,_ and she smiles with something like affection.

“So you can be obedient,” she says. “Keep going and I might let you come. Elbows on the floor, bastard. Worship your queen properly.”

She cuts off another lock of fake hair, and he nearly comes all over the floor as he drops to his elbows with a groan, ass up in supplication.

“You like hair,” she says as she combs her gloves through the strands of black extensions.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to touch it?”

“Fuck, yes. Your real hair.”

“What do you want to do to it?”

“Want to—come—all over it.”

He pumps back and forth, exhaling slowly with the effort of stretching more and more on each stroke.

“Well,” she says, carefully sliding out a pin that anchors a huge coil of hair. He whimpers as it unfurls, revealing the first traces of brown. “That’s not going to happen.”

She removes the pins slowly, luxuriously, tossing them to the ground while he fucks himself.

“Let me make you come,” he pleads.

“You could never make me come.”

God, the things she’s doing to him. “Let me try. Let me try--punish me if I fail.”

Another pin, a few swipes of the knife as she considers, and there she is, in all her glory, nothing but a head full of unremarkable brown hair braided and pinned to her skull to make room for the hideous Naboo headdresses.

“You think you’re worthy?” she asks as she shakes out her hair. “You think you deserve to touch me?”

“ _Please,_ ” he begs. The plug slips fully inside him on every stroke know, holding him impossibly open, pushing deeper inside him than anything ever has. “You think you deserve to see me come? You? You’re nothing.”

The words push every button in his body, but something rings false in them. The ice in her voice cracks for a millisecond.

_Grandfather always makes sure I’m protected._

“You, the bastard son of a smuggler and a traitor. Who could want you?”

 _You could,_ he wants to say, but he can’t get the words out because he’s so dangerously close.

“Tell me about the rebellion,” she orders coolly, as though nothing changed. She holds out her hand and a comb, obsidian and stark, flies into her palm. He chokes when she pricks his bonds with the knife, freeing him, and shoves to comb into his palm.

He’s still got his elbows on the floor, and he drools on the comb when he tries to talk. “Majesty.”

“Comb my hair while you fuck yourself, bastard. Give me what I want and I might give you what you want.”

“Let me fuck you. Please.”

“No, not that. Something you want even more.”

The dildo grazes his prostate and he can’t for the life of him think of anything he wants more than to pull her underneath him while he’s filled to the brim and sob into her beautiful hair while he fucks her. A glove touches his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

“A new name,” she says, and guides his chin up more, forcing him onto all fours so he can hold the comb. “Lord Amidala.”

He pauses on the plug. “That house is extinct.”

“It lacked a worthy heir after the Queen turned rebel, but you could be that heir. You’d be the Lord of an ancient house.”

Fuck. Fuck _fuck._ Maybe she’s lying. Neither she nor the Emperor has any reason to scoop him out of the gutter. He could spill everything he knows and still end this night a naked corpse on her dressing-room floor.

Did he ever really expect better?

She frowns at him and turns around, pointedly failing to remove the knife from his reach. But he doesn’t go for the knife. He leaves the comb too for now, supporting himself on one hand, and begins to fuck himself as he plucks out the pins that hold her braid in place.

On Alderaan, this is an intimate act. A thing done with confessions and promises.

“You know they call you a monster,” he says, quiet enough she has to lean back to hear him. “His monster.”

“I am a monster.”

“Yes you are.” He just barely manages to plant a worshipful kiss on her braid, and she stiffens. “But you’re not _his_.”

What he’s got in mind is risky, but he’s good at reading people, and he’s good at sorting out rumors, and he’s got everything to gain and nothing to lose.

“We’re still playing,” he whispers in her ear as he works his way down the braid. Her hair is as healthy as money can buy, and light at the ends, like she used to spend a lot of time in the sun. The back of her neck is brown, dappled with freckles. “And it’s my turn.”

She hesitates, like she’s considering demanding. But she has a lot of hair, and they’re both enjoying the game.

“Then make a guess,” she says. Does he imagine the breathiness to her voice?

The braid finally slips free, and falls down her back. Ben’s mouth falls open as he fucks himself, and she doesn’t stop him from indulging, bringing the thick, mid-back-length cord of hair to his lips and rubbing it against his face the way he wants to rub it against his cock.

_Your majesty._

“My guess,” he pants between strokes, kissing his way down her hair, “is that you didn’t grow up with any of this.”

“ ‘This’.”

With reverence that doesn’t fit at all with his words, or with the way he’s stretching himself, he tugs off the tie that holds the braid together.

“Maybe you knew what you were,” he says as he begins to comb. “But I don’t think you did.” He pulls the comb through the smooth strands, tracing the waves left behind by the tight hairstyle, freeing it. “I think you go to cantinas because you look at every lying, cheating aristocrat on this planet and you see how stupid the game is. You hate them all just as much as I do, and you hate yourself just as much as I do because you want what they have anyway.”

“You think you know me,” she says quietly.

“I think you want someone to know you.” His ass is getting raw, and he settles for leaving the plug in, enjoying the fullness as much as he can when he feels like he’s going to come any second. “Because you like dangerous games. But where’s the danger here? You could probably choke me just by thinking about it.”

“You’d like that.”

“I—sure, but--I think the danger is that somebody might see under that mask you wear. You’re afraid somebody might touch you.”

At that, she pulls abruptly from his grip, turning on her knees to face him so quickly that her hair goes flying in a curtain around her face.

An invisible collar yanks him upward by the neck, and he grunts as the plug hits a new spot. He towers over her now, looking down into her furious, ordinary eyes.

She sweeps her partially-unraveled braid forward, bends down, and wraps it around his cock.

“Fuck,” he gasps. Her glove is hot, and her hair is so smooth, so shiny, so real. She doesn’t taunt him— _is this what you want, bastard?_ She doesn’t have to.

“Do you know what all my Maidens have in common?” she asks him.

The sensory overwhelm and the non sequitur jam the gears of his brain, but she doesn’t wait for him to answer. She strokes slowly, and speaks.

“All of them were nothing. Picked up from junk piles, thieves and slaves and scavengers. Like I was. So you’re right—true. I hate these people. I hate this palace. I hate Houses and bloodlines, and I picked you from nothing because you hate them too. The Emperor is merciful.”

She picks up the pace of her stroke, and leans in to whisper into his ear.

“Tomorrow, when the House of Lords meets, tell your rebels to be ready. Stay away from the palace, and when it’s over I’ll come for you. Give me a believable lie. They’re listening.”

Ben nearly comes from pure shock, and he’s not sure he’s heard correctly, but the moment is gone too soon. Nobody watching or listening would’ve noticed above all the slick sounds of sex.

“You can come,” she says aloud. “You can come all over my hair if you tell me where that base is.”

“Crait,” he breathes. “It’s—Crait—fuck, yes, yes.”

“Good boy.” She leans forward. “Now come for me, Lord Amidala.”

Her mouth closes over his, and with a jerk he comes, slinging ropes of cum over her hair, her glove.

“Your maj—” he starts to gasp, but the hairpin is already lodged in his shoulder, and the concealed nanojectors work fast.

Her braid is still wrapped around his cock when everything goes black. The last thing he sees is her eyes.

***

Ben wakes up in the back room of a cantina he knows well, with a splitting headache and Phasma keeping a watchful eye.

“What,” he inquires, “the _fuck_.”

His cock still throbs from the memory of it. He’s covered, at least, dressed in Phasma’s borrowed uniform, sleeves overhanging his hands.

“They said you had a message for somebody,” she says. He’s never seen Phasma nervous, but she’s nervous now. The chrono reads 0100 hours. Plenty of time before the Senate opens—whatever happens then.

Ben does have a message. He delivers it, and she hands it off to her foul-tempered BB-unit. Phasma gives him a pain stim and a shot of something unidentified and tells him not to go home, because on the record, he’s dead. He’s not stupid; stormtroopers have probably raided his apartments.

Phasma gives him a hand-written note, sealed but not with the Imperial seal. He opens it to find a small and very incriminating flexiholo of himself unconscious with the plug still in his ass, chin resting in his own cum. The note reads: _Don't worry, I came before I let you go. Be a good servant and burn this._

His cock swells at the thought of her touching herself to the sight of his helpless, pathetic body. Fuck, he'd like to see it. Did she use his body while he was unconscious? He's heard there are drugs for that, and he starts going through his list of contacts for how to get them, not that she probably needs his help. When Phasma raises an eyebrow, he casually uses her lighter to burn the holo and the note.

BB-9e returns with a coded confirmation. They’re evacuating Hoth. They made contact with an insider at the palace. Things are happening. His mother’s safe, and he’s annoyed to realize he cares.

He’s not surprised to hear the explosion at 0930, or to see smoke rising from the palace.

No, she’s not the Emperor’s monster.

A hooded figure arrives at 0947. It’s Finn, makeup gone now, nothing to mark her as the Queen’s Handmaiden assassin. Phasma, in an endearing and completely undeserved show of loyalty, steps in front of Ben, but Ben waves her off.

“I’ll escort you to her majesty,” Finn says. “But it’s essential to her that you understand you can refuse.”

“What about the deal she offered me last night?” He doesn’t want to say too much in front of Phasma. “A new name?”

“Things have changed,” the Handmaiden says. “That deal’s off. But she can offer you other things. You’ll have a chance to walk away when she tells you the new deal.”

Finn holds up a piece of cloth Ben recognizes as a hood, the kind you put over prisoners’ heads before execution. The Handmaiden gestures to the covered speeder outside—it’s far, far too grungy to belong to royalty.

“You understand the need for discretion.”

Phasma shoots Ben an _it’s your funeral_ glance, and Ben shrugs and pulls the hood over his own head for Finn to tighten. He likes dangerous games.

Sirens serenade their way through Coruscant, almost drowning out the usual blare of angry pilots. By the smell it seems like they’re climbing, but Ben finds himself strangely content, almost meditative as he breathes the warm humid air in the hood. He has a vague expectation that he’ll be taken out near the palace, wherever she’s set up whatever operation she’s part of. Maybe he’ll be held somewhere out of sight. Fuck, maybe his mother will even be there and they’ll try to bill him as a damn hero even though he was ready to give up her idiotic rebellion for a lay. Or maybe she’s the Empress now. Maybe she took it all for herself.

Maybe.

The speeder downshifts, and a hand on his arm, Finn’s, guides him none too gently from the speeder. He’s rushed around corners that smell like old paint, and some cheesy love song from the old Republic warbles through a comm system that’s probably just as ancient. Voices, mostly female, grow louder, and then Finn removes the hood without preamble to reveal a dusty hangar, a Corellian freighter, and her.

Her hair, her real hair, rests in a simple braid over her shoulder, doubled-up to stay out of the way. She’s wearing overalls, of all things, and she’s elbow-deep in the _Falcon’s_ starboard engine, removing an Imperial tracker with practiced hands.

Finn clears her throat, and she glances at him, using an oil-stained wrist to push a flyaway strand out of her eyes.

She meets his eyes, and nods.

“I figured I’d see you in a crown,” he says.

She shrugs. “Crowns are very uncomfortable. I just like being in charge.”

He smirks, and nods at the freighter. “That’s my ship.”

She raises her chin. “It’s a bit generous to call it a ship.”

“Fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy.”

“So I hear. It was confiscated for ties to seditious activity. Now,” she grunts, and the tracker falls useless to the hangar floor, “un-confiscated.”

“But still fast.”

“You could be on the other side of the galaxy by tomorrow, and no one on Coruscant would bother to look for you. Your mother knows you’re alive, but no one else does.”

He ignores that last, because he shouldn’t care that his mother worries about him. Finn has moved off, deep in what looks like an emotional conversation with the other Handmaidens.

“Or?” he asks. Somehow they’ve gotten very close to each other, and he reaches up to toy with the end of her braid. Her eyes are fierce, joyful.

“Or, we could move our game somewhere in the Outer Rim.”

“Sounds like a plan, your majesty.”

There are tearful goodbyes, eye-rolling proclamations from Finn and a Handmaiden called Rose that there’s work to do here and they belong with the new Republic, that they’re going to work to make the galaxy a better place. The Queen—Ben doesn’t even know her name—hugs them and Finn wipes away her tears and tells her she’s making the right choice, but that she can do better in terms of travel companion. They make promises to meet again.

And then she boards the _Falcon,_ and he doesn’t complain when she takes his chair.

“Why?” he asks as he slides into the co-pilot’s seat.

“My parents were rebels. They would’ve let me die a slave on a desert planet if it meant keeping me away from him. I was nothing before he found me.”

He nods as he reaches up to flip the overhead and open the hangar doors. “And I bet he told you that all the time.”

She smiles at the smoke-filled Coruscant morning. “Yeah. He did.”

He nods and sets the fuel. “I’m Ben, by the way.”

“Just Ben?”

He laughs, a dry laugh. It feels good. “Yeah. Just Ben.”

“I’m Rey. But you’re still going to call me your majesty when I tell you to.”

He stretches out his arm to toy with her braid. She's kept a single needle-like hairpin from her wardrobe, tucked like a promise against her temple. “Anything you want, your majesty.”

She punches the throttle with a smirk, and he laughs as they rocket into the morning, up, out of the choked air into the wide open arms of space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so much fun going out of my comfort zone to write this for Kinkuary. Thank you for reading!
> 
> *  
> *
> 
> Dubcon TW - Spoilers ahead!: Rey threatens him repeatedly with sharp objects, including threatening to pierce his nipples and unspecified parts of his cock and threatens his life directly. She eventually stabs him, shallowly and painlessly, with a poison hairpin, which knocks him out. He wakes safely, and she gives him an image of himself knocked out and a note saying she came after he was unconscious. Ben gets aroused thinking about the possibility of her using him while he's knocked out, and wants to try it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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